


The Bare Essentials

by demonic_fish



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonic_fish/pseuds/demonic_fish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's back hurts. A lot. (set during that time during season 5 when he and Sam were separated)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bare Essentials

When you haven't slept for thirty-two hours things start to make that special brand of sense that’s recognizable only to you. That is how the world – and sleep-deprived people – work.  
  
So, according to the rules of the universe it makes perfect sense for Dean to sit in a parking lot of a motel and look at the paper to find his next hunt. What he really wants to do is sleep, of course, because hunting solo does take it out of you, whatever I'm-fine bullshit he spun to Bobby earlier. Especially if the hunt is in the middle of the forest and you have to log a backpack full of stuff that usually gets distributed between you and your now-retired world-ending, demon blood-drinking brother: there and back again like a frigging hobbit. Dean figures that backpack was what brought him to the other part of his argument, if he even has one - another reason he doesn't get out of the car, doesn't get himself a shitty cheap motel room and doesn't sink into a shitty cheap bed.   
  
He simply physically can't.   
  
The only reason he made it out of the forest and to the car earlier was the sharp realization that if he stayed he'd freeze to death - or to pneumonia, and no one needed _that_. The only reason he put his foot on the gas pedal and somehow got himself to a motel was the certainty that, with his luck, if he didn't get away from the forest, a bear would come out of it and shit on the hood of the Impala. And the only thing Dean needed even less than pneumonia was scraping bear shit off his baby when his back felt like it was slowly crushed under three baby elephants and their very pregnant mother.   
  
Now, though, - now Dean has no reason to move. He is in a more or less civilized area, no one is shitting anywhere near his car and, on top of those two perfectly good reasons, moving makes Dean think he is going to break in half. Impala makes it better - she always makes everything better, her leather seat gently supporting Dean's back in just the right way - just enough for Dean to be able to hold up the newspaper and start looking for another hunt. The big letters on the top of the paper - the only letters Dean can read right now because it’s night and also because his vision is swimming - tell him something about healthcare options. It does look very ominous, but not really his area.   
  
Trying to wrestle the newspaper and turn the page sends another shot of pain through Dean's body, from the middle of his back and down, making his lips numb and his throat itch. The sound that comes out of his throat resembles a stifled moan a little too closely and it seems funny because Dean used to silence all his sounds of pain for Sammy’s benefit – the kid got too worried about all of it, really – but Sammy isn’t there anymore so why the hell Dean can’t moan without pushing it down?  
  
Laughing hurts too.   
  
Dean is sleep-deprived, not stupid. He knows he's a self-destructive wimp who deals with losing every fucking thing he ever had by throwing himself into his work and making sure he can't dwell on all of it. And he managed to fuck up even that. He can't move. He can't read. He can't sleep either because his back hurts like someone took a meat cleaver to it and didn't quite finish the job. The only thing he can do is think, and even that he's not that good because of the whole lack of sleep factor. He has simple, four words maximum thoughts. _This sucks. This really sucks. Make it fucking stop._  
  
It gets worse, of course. Now Dean has to pee.  
  
There's nothing you can't do provided you've got the right motivation, and not wetting his pants seems like a very stimulating reason to start moving. Dean opens his door and looks out suspiciously. The asphalt seems untrustworthy. Maybe it's possessed. Maybe Dean's going nuts. Maybe he's just stalling, and it seems like the most pathetic but also the most probable option.

 

Getting his legs out of the car is a surprisingly painful process considering he can't really feel them. When Dean's eyes are clear enough so he can more or less see what's in front of him he puts an arm on the Impala's door and hoists himself up. Next on the agenda is not vomiting on his car's top and not dying of embarrassment when he realizes the high-pitched whine he hears - yeah, it's totally him doing that. Dean looks at the empty parking lot stretching between the Impala and the motel and thinks that he should have probably parked closer, but there is no way he is doing a repeat performance of nearly tossing his cookies again tonight, so he'd have to make do. How the fuck he is going to manage that he has no idea, but he's Dean fucking Winchester, savior of mankind, so he figures he'll find a way.  
  
His cell phone rings and he almost keels over from the pain of rummaging through his pockets searching for it.   
  
"Dean." It's Castiel's voice on the other end of the line, and he sounds urgent. Dean wants his hands to go numb, right now, because then he'd have an excuse for dropping his phone and not listening to the conversation they are about to have. Dean is pretty sure he doesn’t want to hear what Castiel has to say.  
  
His hands don’t go numb, of course. That would be too much luck for Dean Winchester.  
  
“Yeah.” He croaks out into the phone. He really hopes it isn’t world in peril kind of stuff because then the world is screwed.  
  
"Where are you?"   
  
It's easier just to tell him. Dean doesn't know what Castiel will be doing with this information but at this point he doesn’t mind having him here and even pitching in with this whole walking thing. Getting help from Castiel seems like not such a big deal, probably because the angel just doesn’t get any of it. The phone in Dean’s hand goes dead after he names his location and Dean really wants to believe the world’s cutting him a break for once, but then he waits and Castiel’s not there. It’s quiet. Dean’s holding on to the door of the Impala, still, and when he feels something behind his back he realizes he can’t really turn around and look without faceplanting into the ground. It can be anything. It can be that bear he was so convinces was after him and his car in the woods.  
  
“Castiel?” Dean tries unsteadily. He really fucking hopes it is. “Are you standing behind my back?”  
  
“Yes.” The answer comes so immediately and loudly Dean flinches.  
  
“Dude! How many times do I have to tell you?...” Dean tries to catch his breath and Castiel dutifully finishes for him, now a little bit further away and from Dean’s side:  
  
“Personal space. I'm sorry. I forget.”  
  
Dean chuckles, which of course sends another wave of pain through him, and sets his forehead on his car’s top. It’s cool and pleasant, and doesn’t really help.  
  
“You're hurt.” Comes from Cas in his special annoyingly even voice. _Gee Cas, thanks for the update._ \- Dean wants to say but all he really manages is a sigh and a nod, and even that’s painful. _I’d really like to pass out now, thanks_ \- he thinks briefly, then pulls himself together and turns his head to look at Cas.  
  
“Yeah. Busted my back, I think.”  
  
“How can I help?”  
  
Castiel’s first response stings briefly but Dean makes himself suck it up. It’s not like the angel should know what to do with him. The one person that does know what to do to help – and knows enough to do it without asking fucking dumb questions – is not here anymore. And Dean is a pathetic loser who can’t walk on his own.

He is trying to gather enough of his thoughts in one place to articulate all the instructions to Cas: about getting him to a motel room and giving him painkillers and making sure Impala’s locked – when his knees go sort of very soft and he almost slides down to finally kiss the parking lot. The ‘almost’ is, of course, because of a freakishly strong angelic hand supporting him around his waist. It feels nice for a split second before it hurts again. Castiel’s brow furrows as the angel looks straight into Dean’s eyes. Dean opens his mouth to say something about – he’s not sure about what at this point, but he knows it will be hilarious, at least to him – but the next thing he knows he’s in a motel room, hanging on to Castiel for dear life.   
  
Castiel looks down on him with the same perplexed expression, his hands still holding Dean up. Dean itches to check if he has something stuck between his teeth but he's lucid enough to know that it's not the case. Instead he brings his hand up and pushes Cas away, swaying on his own two feet as he tries to regain his balance and not pass out from the pain in the same time. Castiel moves to help him again, but Dean waves him away as he leans on the wall near the bathroom door.  
  
"No fucking way, man. Your work here is done."  
  
There are questions Dean knows he should be asking, like where they are and whether Castiel locked the Impala and why he called in the first place, but he figures it can wait for now.   
  
When Dean stumbles out of the bathroom later he's surprised to see Castiel still standing in the middle of the room, holding something small and white up to his face.  
  
"Are those the pills that you require?" He asks immediately as Dean opens the door. They're not that far away from each other but Dean has to stare at the bottle dumbly for a while before he realizes that yeah, they are.  
  
"Cas, you're an angel." Dean grins unsteadily as he takes the bottle from Castiel's fingers. His hands shake as he takes out two pills and dry-swallows them. Then he snorts at Castiel's intense expression of 'I'm really trying to understand what this strange man just said' because yeah, only an angel can put so much thought in what Dean Winchester says.   
  
Sinking into the bed, while it should feel wonderful, brings on another wave of pain and the only thing Dean feels for a while is his throat clamping shut and his eyes burning. Then he's aware of his boots being untied and taken off and on the bed dipping beside him. Because actually being left alone now that he's horizontal and medicated would be too much luck, apparently.   
  
Dean rolls onto his stomach with a groan and buries his face in the pillow.   
  
“What is it, Cas? And, more importantly, can it wait for four hours?”  
  
Castiel is silent for a while and the only way Dean can tell the angel's still there is by the warmth of another body he feels somewhere near his thigh. When Castiel speaks again his voice is strangely softer.  
  
“I didn’t call to ask for your help, Dean.”

“Then why?” Dean feels dumb and pathetic when he asks it and even dumber and more pathetic when Castiel sighs in reply.  
  
“I... felt unsettled.”  
  
Okay, now that's vague enough to make Dean roll his eyes but not much more. He's suddenly aware there's something warm and soft on his waist, just below the line of his hitched-up dirty t-shirt. _It's a hand_ – Dean thinks distractedly, Castiel's hand. It's dry and rough and instantly warms Dean's skin and sends heat right down to his spine. Maybe it’s the painkillers, but Dean decides to think it’s this warmth that makes his back feel better.  
  
“I thought you...” it's suddenly harder to find the words, mostly because he's falling asleep but also because he’s aware just how pathetic he is. “I thought you couldn't do the healing thing anymore.”  
  
“I can't.” Comes Castiel's quiet reply and Dean moves to look back at him and call bullshit but pain slams into him again. He thinks he can hear his jawbones crack he clenches his teeth so hard. Castiel's stroking his back, unevenly, awkwardly – probably something he saw other people do on TV or something, and even though the angel claims he lost his mojo Dean feel himself relax at the touch.  
  
“Cas?” Dean says when he's confident he can speak again, and the hand on his back stops.  
  
“Yes, Dean.”  
  
“Can you just put me to sleep? You can do that, right?” Dean hates how small his voice sounds but he's tired. God help him, he's tired like he's never been in his life and he just wants to _be put to sleep..._  
  
Dean thinks he can feel Castiel nod and wants to chuckle at the idiocy that are angels of the Lord but he doesn't. The hand on his back is gone but before Dean can even start telling himself he does _not_ miss it he feels hot fingers running through his hair, a palm settling on the back of his neck. It sends him to sleep, but not the immediate blackness Castiel uses to get rid of human distractions – it feels like real sleep, and the slide into it is slow enough Dean can feel something warm and clean-smelling covering him and the bed creaking as Castiel stands up.   
  
He wakes up again that night, briefly, only to realize the thing covering him is Castiel's coat and there's something that smells like apples and cinnamon in a container on the bedside table. It's right next to a glass of water, a bottle of pills and the keys to the Impala.

 


End file.
